by Fiona Neill
Malea might have an appalling sense of direction, but at least she was here and could wait with Hector and Alfie while Ali drove to the party to search for Izzy. Her decision made, Ali got up so abruptly that she sent the heavy oak chair flying. Leicester growled and followed her down into the basement, where he sat proprietarily in the middle of a step so that Ali had to negotiate her way around him.
Once downstairs, she switched on all the lights and made as much noise as possible in the hope of rousing Malea. She glanced into the huge playroom, wondering if Jake might be there listening to music with friends. Although the television was switched on, nobody seemed to be watching it.
Ali hesitated in front of Malea’s door, knocking into thin air a couple of times before allowing her knuckle to make contact with the wood. She reminded herself of Malea’s acts of kindness: the way she would put out Hector and Alfie’s clothes every night, neatly stacked in the order they preferred to get dressed; how she offered to bath the twins if Ali was busy helping the other children with their homework; and the Cromer crab waiting on the kitchen table for her one afternoon last week.
Ali gave a couple of quiet taps with her knuckle. When Malea didn’t appear, she used the flat of her hand to bang against the door. Finally Malea emerged, half asleep, wearing a dressing gown tied in a neat bow in the middle of her waist, like a present waiting to be unwrapped. Her cheeks were shiny with face cream.
“What is it, Miss Ali?” she asked sleepily.
“Just Ali, please,” said Ali, as she always did when Malea addressed her. A small lamp was switched on, and Ali could see a couple of pairs of flip-flops neatly stacked in the bottom of a wardrobe containing three pairs of trousers in the same color and a few striped shirts. On the bedside table was a photograph of three small children smiling cheekily at the camera, gap-toothed and tousle-haired. The youngest still has his milk teeth, thought Ali with a pang. Beside them were a picture of the Virgin Mary and a Bible. Otherwise, the room was bare.
“Izzy hasn’t come home and I’m not sure what to do,” said Ali, trying to sound more controlled than she felt.
“Have you tried Mr. Jake?” Malea asked calmly.
“No,” said Ali. “I think Jake is out.” She said his name emphatically.
“He called me an hour ago to bring a snack to his room,” said Malea, trying him on the internal phone on her bedside table. There was no reply. Malea paused. “I think he has girl with him.”
“I will go upstairs and watch the twins so you don’t have to worry about them,” said Malea, going back into the room to fetch her shoes. “Then you can wake Mr. Jake.” Ali followed her inside.
“Thank you,” she said. “Has Izzy done anything like this before?”
“I not think so,” said Malea, “but she always has her troubles. The other nannies found her tricky.”
What other nannies? Ali wondered, suddenly curious about her predecessors. She had never asked any questions about the women who had worked here before her, an oversight that now struck her as both arrogant and ignorant. She should have asked to speak to one of them, to glean their opinion on the Skinners, before she had accepted the job. Now it was too late. She was already involved. She was embedded.
She could tell whether Hector had had a bad day at school simply by observing the angle of his shoulders as he came out of the classroom. Worse, if he emerged with shoulders slumped it affected her mood; she worried about the sweet wrappings and empty packets of laxatives she found behind the radiator in Izzy’s bedroom and the sticky labels with Izzy’s thinspiration mantras. (“Eating is conforming.” “Anorexia is a lifestyle, not a disease.”) Poor Izzy. She would never be as thin as the tiny girls in skinny jeans that congregated in her bedroom on a Friday afternoon after school to experiment with makeup and one another’s clothes. Ali felt another pang of worry, and checked her phone to see whether Izzy had sent her a message, but she hadn’t.
“Are those your children, Malea?” she asked, pointing at the photograph on the bedside table.
“Yes,” said Malea, who was searching in the wardrobe for shoes, her back to Ali so that her face was hidden.
“Where do they live?” asked Ali.
“They live in our village with my mother,” said Malea.
“You must miss them,” said Ali gently.
“Of course,” said Malea, turning round to face her. “But I am giving them a better life by working here than I would if we all lived together at home. They are well fed. They are going to school. They will go to university.”
“What about their father?” Ali asked.
“He was killed in a bus crash,” said Malea simply.
“I’m sorry,” said Ali, berating herself. Malea shrugged.
“It is the way of the world,” she said quietly.
“Wouldn’t you rather be poor and be with your children?” Ali found herself asking.
“I don’t think you understand,” said Malea. “Where I come from, people are so poor they have to choose which child to sell to help the others survive.”
“I’m sorry,” stammered Ali. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay, Ali,” said Malea, pulling on her shoes, “no one has asked the question the whole time I have lived in England. Let’s go.”
Ali went upstairs, two steps at a time, until she found herself outside Jake’s bedroom. She knocked a couple of times, but there was no response so she listened outside the door and then gently turned the handle. It was the first time she had been in his room since she moved into the Skinners’ house, even though the staircase to the converted attic began right outside her bedroom door. Jake’s door opened into a cavernous space running the entire roof span. A dull light shone from a red-and-purple lava lamp. She squinted to get her bearings. On the wall was an Arsenal shirt in away colors signed by the victorious 2005 FA Cup team. There was a photo, presumably of Jake, although it was difficult to tell, skiing in a downhill slalom wearing a bib sponsored by Vodafone. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace were school photos of him playing football. He was in the first team for everything.
Ali went over to the end of his bed and stared at the tangled duvet for a moment. There were definitely two bodies beneath. He had a double bed. For someone who had slept with a boyfriend only in the back of a car or in a single bed, this proved strangely irksome to Ali, a measure of the gulf between them. Jake’s attitude to his family’s wealth was indifference rather than arrogance, but Ali held him more accountable because he was closest to her in age. She recalled the cricket bat Malea had found last month, already lost and replaced with a more expensive model; school ski holiday paid up unquestioningly; stolen BlackBerry substituted with the latest Nokia; latest MacBook on his desk; £50 spending money for a night out.
Ali moved toward the left side of the bed, where Jake’s head was just visible. She noisily pulled out the drawer of the bedside table, hoping to wake him up without touching him. There was a familiar jumble of spare iPod headphones, a small plastic bag containing cigarette papers and tobacco, and a small packet of grass. She opened and shut the drawer a couple more times. Jake didn’t stir, although the body next to him rolled closer.
Ali sat on the bed close to his head. She tentatively touched his hair, gently ruffling the fringe as she did when she woke the twins in the morning. He sighed deeply. She took the edge of the duvet and pulled it back to expose the top of his shoulder. Ali’s hands were cold, and he tried to push her away as she shook the top of his arm. A naked leg emerged from beneath the duvet. His eyes remained closed.
“Jake, please, it’s me,” whispered Ali, prodding his shoulder again. Jake put an arm out of the bed and rested it on Ali’s thigh.
“Please open your eyes,” pleaded Ali.
“What do you want?” he mumbled.
“I need your help. Izzy was meant to be home over
an hour ago and she’s not picking up her phone.”
“Relax,” said Jake, patting her leg. “She’ll come home when she’s ready.”
“She’s only fourteen,” pleaded Ali.
“A fourteen-year-old London girl is like a twenty-one-year-old girl from Cromer,” he said. The girl beside him stirred. “Sshh, you’re going to wake Lucy.” He closed his eyes again.
“I don’t know how to get to Notting Hill,” Ali pleaded.
“What do you want me to do?” he mumbled. He tried to pull Ali onto the bed, as she pummeled his shoulder. Unsure how else to respond, Ali picked up a glass of water from the bedside table and threw it over his face.
• • •
“Are you pissed, Ali?” asked Jake, gripping the side of the front seat of the car half an hour later as they pulled up outside the house in Notting Hill where Izzy’s party was being held. Apart from giving instructions on how to get to the Bassetts’ house, he hadn’t spoken during the journey. Occasionally he ran his fingers through his hair to see if it was still wet. “Or are you just a crap driver?”
“Crap driver,” admitted Ali. To her relief there were hardly any cars in the road, which meant she didn’t have to reverse into a space outside the house.
“I’m just a bit out of practice,” said Ali, as they parked, although actually she had managed a couple of smooth gear changes. They got out, went to the front door and rang the bell a couple of times. No one answered. The house was ablaze with light, and they could hear the dull throb of music emanating from the basement. It’s amazing that the neighbors don’t complain, thought Ali, looking up and down the street.
“Everyone’s in the country for the weekend,” said Jake.
They peered through the letterbox, called Izzy’s mobile phone, and heard it ringing from a pile of coats carelessly stacked along the hallway. A teenage boy knelt down and started searching through pockets to locate the phone. Jake called to him through the letterbox to let them in. He half opened the door, and when he realized he recognized Jake from school, he allowed them both inside.
“Sorry, mate,” he mumbled, glancing from Ali to Jake in confusion.
“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Bassett?” Ali asked the boy.
“Away.” He shrugged, then headed back downstairs into the basement. Ali and Jake followed him. They walked past a huddle of girls queuing outside a bathroom on a landing halfway down the stairs. Even in the dull light, Ali could see that the pale beige carpet was covered in muddy footprints.
“Sasha, have you seen Izzy?” Jake shouted up at one of the girls.
Ali thought she recognized Sasha, although perhaps it was because she looked exactly like the girl that Jake had just brought home.
“Hi, Ali,” Sasha said, standing up. Even without shoes she towered over Ali. She was wearing a pair of tiny denim shorts that accentuated her improbably long legs and a checked shirt knotted at her stomach to reveal a pierced tummy button. Her hair tumbled in blond waves around her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were dark with kohl. Ali realized that she was simply a much older version of the Sasha who periodically appeared in the kitchen at Holland Park Crescent after school and politely asked for a snack to take upstairs to do her homework with Izzy.
“Dance, Jake?” Sasha asked, swaying her hips to the music.
“I’m looking for Izzy,” Jake shouted, as Sasha stepped downstairs until she was standing beside him. She was the same height as Jake. She stretched out her arm and let it rest on Jake’s shoulder.
“Most people bring a bottle of vodka to a party, but you bring your nanny,” she shrieked with laughter. She leaned over to Jake and kissed him on the lips until he relented. “Enjoy,” she said, rewarding his lack of resistance. “I think Izzy is upstairs.”
• • •
The layout of the house was similar to that of the house on Holland Park Crescent, but it was on a smaller scale, which made it easy for Ali to get her bearings. It was funkier, too. Although the upstairs sitting room was lit by a single lamp and precariously pitched tea candles, Ali could see that the walls were painted a deep blood red and the sofas were covered in throws in exotic colors. There was a loose Oriental theme: the cupboards were painted in gold lacquer; the fireplace was guarded by a four-armed Vishnu.
Ali stood by the mantelpiece to scan the room for Izzy. In the center of the mantelpiece there was a sculpture of a man’s head, the same color as the walls, and a couple of photographs, including one of Mick Jagger holding a baby, Jerry Hall draped gracefully across his shoulder. There were tiny trinkets: a pipe from India, a small clay band of animals playing musical instruments, a pencil box from Iran, and a collection of Gandhara Buddha heads. On the walls were black-and-white photographs of rock bands, including the Rolling Stones. She could see Jake approaching in the mirror above the fireplace.
“I can’t see her,” she said anxiously.
“Did you see the photos?” asked Jake, tapping the glass frame. “Sasha’s dad works in the music industry. Her mum used to be a model.”
“Gosh,” said Ali, impressed. “Do you think they’ll be home soon?” Jake laughed.
“They split up years ago. Her dad’s new girlfriend is younger than Sasha’s older sister. She’s a younger model of the older model. This is his house. But he’s in Marrakesh for the weekend.”
“What about Sasha’s mum?”
“She’s at home with her boyfriend. It’s not her weekend to have Sasha,” Jake patiently explained.
“So Sasha is having a party without any adult supervision?” Ali asked in astonishment. “I’m not sure I approve.”
“Please don’t have one of your Mary-fucking-Poppins moments here,” said Jake.
“What do you mean?” asked Ali.
“What I mean is that in my world life isn’t supercala-fucking-fragilistic all the time,” said Jake. “It’s up and it’s down.”
Jake took Ali by the arm and led her back toward the staircase. She noticed a couple entwined on the sofa, a half-drunk bottle of wine on its side beside them, its contents seeping into the carpet. Ali couldn’t help bending down to right it. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Sophia Wilbraham’s daughter, Martha, glancing across at her, eyes glazed. Ali was taken aback to notice that one of the girl’s breasts was exposed and was being inexpertly kneaded by the boy who lay on top of her. He suddenly leaned over and took the perfectly shaped nipple into his mouth and chewed it as though he was trying to nudge a stone from a cherry. Poor technique, thought Ali. Martha lazily put a finger up to her mouth, looked at Ali and whispered, “Sshh.” Ali felt Jake nudge her.
“Did you see that?” asked Ali.
“She’s doing a GCSE in Westminster boys.” Jake laughed dismissively. “Her older sister has even slept with the tutor her mum got to help her get to grips with Thomas Hardy.”
In the master bedroom on the first floor, there were so many bodies draped across the bed that it was difficult to work out how they fitted together. There was a boy in the middle, a girl lying under each arm, except one of the girls was deep in conversation with another boy draped over the legs of the first one. They were all sharing a cigarette. At the foot of the bed were another couple of bodies. One of the girls was curled up in the fetal position, sound asleep.
“She’s in a K-hole,” said Jake.
“What do you mean?” asked Ali.
“Vitamin K,” said Jake knowingly.
“Ketamine?” confirmed Ali. “As in horse tranquilizer?” Jake nodded.
In the corner a girl was trying to play a song by the Stereophonics, but every time she pressed play someone else changed the music. For a moment Ali envied their careless intimacy. She resolved to call Rosa the following day and arrange a weekend in Norwich. At the dressing table a bare-torsoed boy was busily dividing up lines of white powder. He lef
t a particularly large one for himself.
“Banker’s bonus.” He laughed, noticing Ali’s expression. She said nothing.
“Line for the road?” he asked Ali.
“No. Thanks,” said Jake on her behalf.
“Izzy won’t be here,” said Jake, hurriedly urging Ali out of the room.
“How do you know?” asked Ali.
“Don’t you think if she did coke she’d be thinner?” Jake pointed out.
“I can’t believe this,” said Ali as she closed the door behind her.
“Don’t say anything to Mum,” said Jake.
“About what?” said Ali.
“About any of this,” said Jake. “She’ll just get worried.”
“She should get worried,” said Ali.
They continued upstairs to another floor. A couple of girls walked past and told them the loo was blocked because someone called Suzi had been sick. It was quieter. Ali could feel the dull throb of music through the floorboards, but it was no longer too loud to speak. As they passed the loo, she noticed a pair of legs sticking out the doorway and the putrid stink of vomit.
“Must be Suzi,” said Ali, relieved to hear the girl groaning on the marble floor. “At least it’s not carpet.”
There were two doors before them. Ali chose the one farthest away from the landing. They found themselves in a poorly lit bedroom. Then they saw Izzy. She was kneeling on the floor beside the bed. Apple bobbing, thought Ali in confusion as Izzy’s head moved rhythmically up and down in the lap of a boy sitting on the bed. His eyes were closed, but in his hand he held up a mobile phone above his head. Surely he wasn’t making a phone call and having a blowjob at the same time? Could boys multitask like that? Jake was quicker off the mark.
